


Dark Heart

by Mysdrym



Series: Impervious [6]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Horror, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:22:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29206563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysdrym/pseuds/Mysdrym
Summary: The story of a young man who became a jaded forsaken warlock who struggled to find a point in his unlife.
Series: Impervious [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2122644





	Dark Heart

Timmons Burlaste pulled his hood down lower over his face as he sauntered into Brill, a frown plastered to his lips. Most of the other forsaken were smart enough to leave him be, though one or two morons tried to call out a friendly greeting. He slouched his shoulders more than usual and hurried past the idiots and into the inn.

No, he didn't really need to sleep. But perhaps he could kick a few others out of a room and get some goddamned peace for a while...

One would think it would be easy to find quiet and time to think in a dead land, but the truth was that there was still far too much movement in Tirisfal for his liking. If he tried to wander into the scraggly forests or near the lake, then he was constantly attacked by demon hounds or zombies. If he tried to find time to himself near a road, some deadguard or idiot novice would come up, wanting help.

What, did he have some sign saying 'Hand of Sylvanas' over his head or something? Why did everyone expect him to do their dirty work?

Probably because he'd been stupid enough to help when he'd first been freed by the Dark Lady. He had been right there with the others, repairing broken buildings so that they could be inhabited and doing his part to wipe the Scarlet Crusade from the face of Azeroth. Did that really mean every risen corpse in the area had to come to him with their problems?

He scared some old wretch, who was murmuring something about wanting a blanket and feeling the plague creeping back through her bones, out into the hall and slammed the crooked door in her face as her glowing eyes seemed to plead with him for a bit of kindness.

She was forsaken, wasn't she? It seemed like disappointment would be ingrained into her rotting brain.

Timmons flopped face down onto the bed so that whenever someone came in to reclaim the frail woman's room for her, they wouldn't be able to see his face. One might not realize how hard it could be to keep a hood up to obscure one's features.

However, he was intent that no one would ever see the upper half of his face and as a result, people had already come to know him as 'that guy with the hood.' Maybe that's how they were finding him to ask for help. Pity a bit of notoriety wasn't enough to persuade him to ditch his head gear. Maybe he could do enough damage to get people to avoid 'that guy with the hood' instead of seeking his assistance.

Drumming his fingers against the threadbare bed sheets, he couldn't help but wonder how this could have been avoided. However, no matter how he looked at the choices and actions that had led him to where he was, he couldn't help but think that the only way he could have avoided this fate would have been if someone other than him had done something differently.

If the cultists hadn't spread the plague, if his mother hadn't fled with him to Lordaeron to cover up his illegitimate existence, if Arthas hadn't been a total prick. As always, he was little more than a plaything for others.

Really, he'd made the best out of the hand he'd been dealt. It was just a really shitty hand.

Just as he offhandedly hoped that the plague had reached his father in Gilneas, a harsh rapping began on the door.

"Go away! I'm jacking off!" Timmons hissed, hoping that whoever it was would be a woman and that perhaps it wouldn't occur to her that no blood flow meant certain activities were forever beyond his abilities.

While he heard a disgusted cough on the other side of the door, it still opened and he listened to boots stride across the floor before coming to a stop next to the bed. A man's voice hissed into his ear as he found himself jerked to his feet. "Mister Burlaste. A word, if you will..."

~"~

_Timmons knew he should have been in bed as he sat perched near the railing beside the stairs. If his mother caught him up past his bedtime, she'd scold him and-if she was upset enough-she might even bring out the belt._

_Even so, it was worth the risk._ He _was coming by. His father. Lord Burlaste rarely had time for him, but Timmons always looked forward to those visits. His mother was always so...distant. In truth, he knew that she couldn't stand him. How many times had she threatened to send him away, to ship him off to another city? But she wouldn't. After all, Timmons was the only reason his father still came by at all._

_And he would always greet Timmons with that broad smile and tussle his hair and ask him if he were learning anything important in school. That was why Timmons tried so hard. So that he'd always have something to tell his father. He wanted him to be proud of him because maybe, just maybe, if he could prove that he wasn't a complete waste of space, his father would take him with him._

_Not that he ever begged him to. He didn't want to seem weak, like his mother. Whenever his father came around, all she did was sob and plead. Take her away from this horrible life. Take her away, if only for the child. Think of poor Timmons, mocked by the other boys for being a bastard._

_In truth, his mother was the only one who used that word. The rest of the community was fairly kind. While he couldn't really say that he had friends, he couldn't say that the other children went out of their way to make him miserable, either._

_His life could be a bit lonely at times, but that was alright. So long as his father kept coming by to visit, he could withstand anything._

_He heard the door open and he held his breath, as though a simple exhale might slam the sturdy oak shut and lock his father out. Heavy boots thudded softly onto the wooden floor and he heard his mother begin chirping away about how good it was to see him. Timmons crept down the stairs and paused at the doorway into the kitchen. His father had taken off his heavy coat and was just taking a seat at the table while his mother clung to one of his hands when he noticed Timmons' face in the dull light of the candle._

_"There's my boy." His father slipped out of his chair and down onto one knee, holding his arms out and Timmons eagerly flung himself into them, wrapping his arms around his father's neck. The man's beard scraped roughly into Timmons' cheek, but he liked it. One day, he'd have a beard just like it._

_Before he could start telling his father about how he was the first boy in his class to figure out his times tables, his father put his hands on his shoulders and moved him back so that he could look him in the eyes. "I'm afraid I'm not here for long today. I'll be by again tomorrow, but the sooner we talk this over, the better."_

_Timmons tilted his head to the side, his large green eyes hopeful. Was his father going to take him away from this? Was he telling him now so that he could pack his things and be ready to go in the morning? Even as Timmons imagined riding through town on his father's horse, wondering how different the world would look so high up, his father cleared his throat. He'd caught the enthusiasm in the boy's eyes and he looked sad._

_"Timmons, I hear you've been telling people your last name is Burlaste."_

_He was puzzled by the comment. "So?"_

_"You can't tell them that," his father said it gently, patting his head._

_Timmons frowned. "But you're my father."_

_"I know, and I love you, but you can't tell people that's your last name-"_

_"Why not?" Timmons took a step back, brushing his father's hand away when he tried to pull him back to him._

_"Because that would be a lie. Lying is bad. You don't want to be bad, do you?"_

_His heart hurt, though at first he couldn't place why. However, as his gaze swept the room, looking for some sign that this was all a cruel joke, his mother caught his attention and she mouthed a single word._

Bastard.

_Timmons felt as if he'd had the air kicked out of him. His father couldn't be calling him that...couldn't be agreeing with her... He turned a terrified look back to his father, and opened his mouth to beg him to say that it wasn't true, that that wasn't what he was thinking, but he snapped his jaws shut, squeaking as he bit the inside of his cheek._

_His mother begged. He didn't._

_He tasted the blood in his mouth from the nick in his cheek and concentrated on the metallic taste until he didn't feel like crying anymore. With a short nod, he took another step back from his father. "I won't tell anyone else."_

_Even as his father smiled and offered his hand to him, Timmons backed up to the door. He motioned over his shoulder half-heartedly. "I should... It's past my bedtime."_

_He didn't listen for his father's footsteps leaving. He tried to tell himself that it was because his father had promised him the next day, but his reassurances to himself were hollow. How he wished there was someone else to tell him that, so that he could at least pretend to believe._

_It couldn't have been ten minutes later, as he was crawling into bed, his hair brushed, his clothes folded, his face washed, that he heard the floorboards near his doorway creak and he turned to see his mother leaning against the frame, a blank look on her face._

_"Do you get it yet?"_

_He didn't reply. Instead, he pulled the covers up to his chin and offered a quick prayer to the light to watch over everyone, sick and healthy, rich and poor, loved and lost. As he finished, he felt his mattress sink down on one side and opened his eyes to see his mother sitting beside him. She reached out and stroked his hair. He recoiled and she shrugged._

_"He doesn't want you, either."_

_Timmons felt a lump in his throat. He jerked up, glaring at her. "You're wrong. He loves me-"_

_"Why do you say that?" She asked, her voice gentle as though she were whispering a lullaby. "Because he comes to see you?" She frowned. "Whenever he comes, it's either at night or during the early morning, so that no upstanding citizen will see him come visit his whore and his bastard." She picked at her skirt. "He never takes you out anywhere. Never lets himself be seen in public with you."_

_The knot in his throat felt like it would suffocate him. "He said-"_

_"Timmons, words don't mean anything," his mother offered, softly. She rose to her feet and stopped in the doorway. "He said he loved me, too."_

~"~

"Bastard," someone hissed as Timmons sauntered past them to the stables. He didn't bother checking to see who had said it. It was a common sentiment in Brill and he wouldn't have it any other way.

Though...even as dastardly as he tried to make himself, people were still coming to him for help. Perhaps this would be his chance to finally find some peace and quiet...

He strode up to the stable master and presented him with the orders he'd just been given. The man took the paper in a withered hand; only one of his fingers still had any meat on it. The yellow glow from his eyes illuminated the letters in the dark of the night and after a moment, his lips dipped into a deep frown.

"Is this a joke?"

Timmons tugged on his hood, making sure that it stayed over his face. "Am I laughing?"

The old corpse ground his teeth slowly and then turned sharply on his heel, stalking over to one of the more decrepit looking horses and beginning to saddle it up. Timmons frowned. "I believe the note said to give me one of your better steeds."

"This here is one of my best," the man replied dryly, pausing to give Timmons a nasty grin. Half of his teeth were missing and the mere action sent unnatural tears along his lips.

Timmons shifted his weight and crossed his arms. "Hurry it up, then."

~"~

_His mother had such a tight grip on his hand that he wasn't sure he'd ever feel his fingers again. She led him quietly through the streets in the middle of the afternoon, constantly using her other hand to tug on her hood. Every now and then he could see her glance down to make sure his was still in place as well._

_They'd been walking forever, it seemed, and Timmons was ready to just apologize for whatever he might have done so that they could go home and rest. However, she merely tugged on his hand. He saw a pained smile slip across her lips for a moment. "We're almost there."_

_Down another street, past a bakery shop that smelled divine, and into an alley, they finally stopped. His mother released his hand and he rubbed at his numb knuckles resentfully. However, before he could coax the circulation to return, she hoisted him up by his waist. "Can you reach the top of the fence?"_

_Timmons blinked and looked down at her. Her hood had fallen back and her long brown hair tumbled crazily about her face and shoulders. For the first time, he realized that she was pretty. Looking up, he had to stretch to grab the top of the stone fence and pull himself up. Once he was seated on it, his mother climbed up herself, cursing once as one of her fingers got caught in between two stones, where the mortar had started to crumble. When she was beside him, she held a finger to her lips and then pointed down toward what looked to be a small forest. Timmons thought it was weird to have one in the middle of the city._

_"We have to stay low, alright?"_

_He nodded once and followed her until they reached the trees. Once there, his mother slipped back to the ground and held her hands up for him. He slipped into them and she set him on the ground and took his hand again. This time, she was gentler._

_They wove through the underbrush for a few minutes before she stopped. Ahead, the trees thinned out abruptly and Timmons could just barely hear voices and laughter. While his mother seemed frozen, as though the very touch of the light would turn her to dust, Timmons crept past her so that he could see what was going on, what it was she'd wanted to show him._

_As he stopped just inside the shadows, he felt as though ice had replaced his blood, his heart._

_His father was running through the yard, tossing a ball back and forth with a boy who looked just a few years older than Timmons. Two women sat upon a blanket on the grass, sipping tea and laughing. They called out to Timmons' father and the boy and the two went running up to them, though his father paused to catch the boy and swing him up over his shoulder. He set him back down as he reached the blanket and leaned down to kiss the younger of the women on the lips._

_Timmons didn't realize that he'd run away until he found himself staring up at the wall, wishing more than anything that he was tall enough to scale the damn thing himself. He felt his mother's hands on his waist and he let her hoist him up, though he didn't wait for her before he darted back toward the alley they'd come from._

_She caught up to him there, and sat beside him, both their legs dangling over the stones. As she reached out to tug his hood back into place, he smooshed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying not to cry._

_"Why?"_

_He wasn't sure he'd even managed to say it past the burning urge to sob that was wracking his body. His mother reached out to pat his knee and then pulled her hand back. "I'm sorry. I just...I couldn't watch you wait for him like that anymore."_

_"No," Timmons whispered, slowly shaking his head. "They came first, didn't they? Before us."_

_His mother let out a strange rasping noise that caught in her throat and he looked up worriedly to see that she had her eyes squeezed shut. She finally managed to nod. "They did."_

_"So why does he have us?" He felt a tear run down his cheek and suddenly he couldn't keep the rest in. "If he had them, why did he get us?"_

_His mother merely crumpled against herself, sobbing. Timmons suddenly felt so selfish. As bad as he hurt...his mother had felt this all this time. He stood back on top of the fence and wrapped his arms around her, fighting to stem his own tears as she pulled him into her lap and held him against her._

~"~

"Best horse my ass," Timmons muttered as he swung off it. He considered tying it to a tree but then paused. Maybe something would scare it and it would flee to its second death if he left it. However, he frowned. It would probably find its way back to Brill on its own.

He tied it to one of the sickly looking pine trees, figuring that perhaps it would get eaten by a rogue pack of zombies or that some Scarlet fools would find it and put it out of its misery. Back to the beast, he summoned his voidwalker and tugged out his map. Even as he figured the Scarlet base they wanted him to investigate was due east, he frowned, looking up to see his voidwalker peering over it as well. The demon looked up at him, the glowing hollows of its eyes trying to peer into Timmons', searching for a weakness to exploit.

Timmons merely pointed a boney finger east. "Go."

As he crept through the underbrush after his demon, he frowned. It was almost August. He would need to bring flowers to her grave, soon. Lilies, of course. They had always been his mother's favorite.

At first, he had decided he wouldn't go. After all, he was dead now, so it wasn't like the practices of the living still applied to him. Except...they did. As much as every forsaken might claim to have discarded their humanity, they all still clung to it. They huddled in the broken shells of towns, sought solace by appointing governing officials, and sought comfort in knowing that there were others who shared their pain.

They were just as human as they'd ever been.

After he'd had this revelation, he'd decided he wouldn't go because he didn't want to find that his mother's grave had been disturbed. She had always been so pretty...he didn't want to see her as a shambling corpse, or to even think of her as one. He'd tried to console himself with the fact that she had died several years before the plague and there probably hadn't been enough left for any necromancers to reanimate.

~"~

_"Happy birthday!" Timmons held up a small lily to his mother, trying not to look worried that she wouldn't like it._

_She blinked back her surprise and took it from him, turning it slowly to see the speckles of yellow that ran down the petals. The stem was a bit too short to put in a vase. Timmons watched her inspect it and suddenly frowned. "I woulda gotten a better one, but..." Flowers were expensive. He didn't want to tell her that, though. He suddenly wanted to take the flower back and toss it out. It was such a cheap gift._

_His mother straightened up, smiling at him and holding the lily to her heart. "Well I don't see that you could have gotten a better one. After all, lilies are my favorite."_

_Timmons' eyes lit up. He hadn't realized that. "I thought about a bouquet, but none of the other flowers looked good with it." It was such a lie. He hadn't had the money for any of the pretty flowers, but had been so desperate, picking up each flower and asking the shopkeeper how much they cost that the woman had finally shoved the lily in his hands and taken his money._

_His mother's smile never wavered. "But lilies are too pretty to be with other flowers, don't you think? They stand alone so well."_

_Timmons dragged a chair toward the cupboards, but before he could hoist himself up to grab a glass for the flower, his mother caught him by the shoulder. He turned and grinned from ear to ear as he saw that she'd put the flower behind one of her ears, a few wisps of hair already tangling over the petals._

_"You, sir," his mother hugged him, "give the best gifts."_

~"~

Timmons flipped the missive in his fingers over slowly, not caring to read what was on it. He recognized the seal as the one he'd been sent to retrieve. Whether it was vital intelligence or a damn party invitation didn't matter to him. He hoped it was the latter. How lovely would it be for them to have wasted their time trying to get a hold of this scrap of paper, just to see that it was useless?

Of course, they'd blame him, but that hardly mattered.

Timmons suddenly froze in place. He could feel something watching him. Hunching toward the ground, he turned to look back and stilled as he saw some type of ghoul standing a few yards away, attention glued to him. However, it lacked the typical frenzied nature of a regular undead. Even as Timmons pondered whether he ought to send his voidwalker after it, the creature raised two bone thin arms, palms out in surrender.

"Help."

The voice was scratchy and coarse, but he thought it was a woman's. He narrowed his eyes as he realized she'd spoken in common. Straightening up, he made no move toward her, nor did he attempt to reply.

The woman's eyes had a dim blue glow to them and he noticed her ears were elongated and pointed straight up as she took a tentative step toward him, though she stopped when he tensed and she saw his demon. She eyed it for a moment before looking back at him.

"Please."

Timmons inspected her, again wondering if there was that netherborn sign over his head, saying that he was some sort of hero or something. Realizing that the creature in front of him probably wasn't Scourge-a new forsaken, perhaps?-he walked toward her slowly, only to stop when he was close enough to reach out and touch her if he so chose. He could hear a faint, slow heartbeat.

His jaw hung slack as he stared at the skeletal, _living_ woman in front of him. He hadn't realized anything had survived the plague and suddenly wondered if this creature were carrying it. He'd heard rumors that forsaken could succumb to it a second time.

He imagined the chaos that might ensue if she made it to Brill or the Undercity.

"What do you need help with?"

~"~

_"Timmons, please hurry," his mother's voice was strained. His mother was busy throwing her belongings into a small rucksack. She'd given him a bag of his own and told him to pack some clothes and hurry. It wasn't hard to fit all of his belongings into the bag-neither of them had much-but he couldn't find his ball. It was the only toy he really had and he was determined not to leave without it. At least, that was until he met his mother's gaze._

_She knelt in front of him and stroked his cheek before sweeping his cloak over his shoulders and clasping it. As he tried to explain to her his dilemma, she merely held a finger to his lips. "Do you remember how we talked about going away? Going somewhere where we can have a clean start...where people won't look down on you and me?"_

_Timmons had been noticing it more and more of late. The other boys weren't kind in not calling him names. They simply ignored him all together. And when he tried to speak with them, feeling lonely after realizing how little he actually meant to his father, they had pretended he didn't exist. By the nether, his teacher had yelled at him to leave them alone._

_The adults were so much worse. He'd started to notice the way they looked down their noses at his mother, the way they whispered and watched her when they thought no one was looking._

_Harlot, tramp, whore. They sounded so smug when they called her those things, but she wasn't any of them._

_He had offered to drop out of school so that he could help her raise enough money for them to move, but she had insisted that his best course of action would be to become learned. It opened doors, she'd said softly._

_It had been then that he'd realized she hadn't gone to school for very long herself and after that he'd made a point to push himself even harder. He'd learn enough to help both of them get places._

_His mother swung her cloak around her shoulders and smiled down at him, though there was a slight terror in her eyes that puzzled him. "I found a very nice man who's willing to take us north, but we have to hurry."_

_"But my-"_

_"I'll buy you a new one, when we get to Lordaeron, alright?" His mother's smile seemed forced._

_With an obedient nod, Timmons gave up on his toy and followed after her. They swept through the streets like shadows until they finally turned a corner and Timmons could see the wagon. His mother squeezed his hand gently. "Things will get better. I promise."_

~"~

Timmons stared down at the giant, yet emaciated creature lying sprawled out in the small cave, taking up almost all of the floor. He'd never seen anything like it. It's skin looked like it had a thin layer of moss growing upon it, giving it a dull green hue, and it had two enormous tusks sticking out from the corners of its mouth. The tusks must have been too heavy for it to lift its head, for it had turned to the side so that one of the large teeth could rest against the ground. The little woman, an elf, knelt beside him and ran her fingers over the creature's forehead. As she lifted her hand, it dripped with sweat. She looked back at Timmons, her expression blank.

"I can't carry him."

Timmons squatted beside her, cursing as he felt his robe catch on one of his exposed kneecaps. Pointing at the creature, his typical frown deepened. "This thing is probably plagued."

The little elf merely looked back at the creature and ran her hand over his forehead again. "Haa'aji is not plagued. It's an infection."

Timmons felt himself losing interest. "And?"

The little elf looked back at him. For a moment, the void facade of hers broke and he could see terror stirring in her dimly glowing eyes. She looked away. "The men in red come by here too often. It is not safe to treat him here." She took the creature by one of his three fingered hands. "I can't move him by myself."

Timmons watched the creature take in a few ragged breaths before hopping back to his feet and carefully pulling the fabric out of his joint. He patted the ratty robe and then shrugged. "Don't know what you want me to do about it."

~"~

_Lordaeron wasn't any different than Gilneas. Not to Timmons. People still whispered when they saw him and his mother. That a woman and her child would travel so far...none of them considered that maybe his father had died. They always jumped to the truth and it made Timmons loathe them._

_Why couldn't they be given the benefit of the doubt?_

_His mother had said that words didn't mean anything, but she'd been wrong. Words had power. They could isolate a man in a single exhale. They could suck the life out of a conversation. They could destroy someone._

_His father had been wrong, too. Lying wasn't always bad. More and more, he saw that it was all that he and his mother had. Lies woven with pretty words._

_Timmons pretended, if only for his mother. While he might glare at people on the street, speak harshly to the shopkeepers who gave him a critical eye for the medicines he bought, as soon as he walked through the door to he and his mother's home, he had a bounce in his step and a flicker of hope in his eyes._

_He always made sure to look into something new. The market, the bell, the castle. When he'd get home, he'd tell his mother about the wonders of their new home and she'd sit quietly in her bed, her pallid face trying to reflect his enthusiasm while she masked the pain consuming her body._

_When she'd first fallen sick, he had asked the doctor what was wrong, but had stopped him before he could answer when he saw the terrified look on his mother's face. In that instant, he'd remembered the "nice" man who had brought them to Lordaeron, the way he'd hovered around her at night, when she'd tuck Timmons in and insist that he drink something to help him sleep. He'd protested at first, pointing out that he'd never needed help sleeping before, but his mother had merely shook her head and pushed the vial on him again, insisting that the country was different from the city._

_That man had done this to her._

_Timmons forced such thoughts from his mind as he knocked on his mother's door and then walked in. "Hey!"_

_Her eyes were so dim and her smile so faint. "Timmons...did you have a good day? Did you go to school?"_

_Timmons' smile was strained. "Of course, mom."_

_How was it that the only happiness in his life, in his mother's, centered around lies? And such frail ones at that. They smiled at one another and talked about futures they'd never have. It was all so...pointless._

_But maybe...people said that hope was an amazing thing. That it could pull people through the worst hells on earth and make them bounce back. If he could give his mother enough hope, would she recover? A part of him hated himself for even entertaining the idea, but he kept his smile intact as he patted his mother's hand and started to tell her about the things he'd learned._

_It was true enough, wasn't it? Just because the school wouldn't accept anyone for free and he had to sit outside the window, eavesdropping, didn't mean he wasn't learning._

_And Timmons was learning, though not the sorts of things he would ever tell his mother. He was getting quick with his hands. He would never be a rogue, but he could lift a wallet in a pinch._

_And in the dead of night, he could hear whispers. Wordless voices enticing him with power and calling for him in the darkness. He'd followed the voices once, when they'd first arrived, before his mother had grown too weak to go out herself. It had led him to a small shop and he'd been surprised to find the door open. After creeping through the building and finding a hidden door in the back that led to a secret basement, he'd been awed to see hooded men drawing strange symbols onto the floor and chanting. He'd been enraptured while the runes lit up and an eerie purple light illuminated the room, casting skewed shadows across everything._

_When it had died down, a creature of shadows and nothingness had stood in the center of the room, its amorphous form seething with anger. It lunged for the nearest man, but that same light from before sprang to life near the edges of its being, cutting off parts of the shadows from the rest of it. With another flash, silver bracers wrapped around blue wrists and the creature held up its hands. He was no longer free. Now a part of him had been restrained to definite space, a sign of his complete subjugation. Timmons could feel the creature's contempt for its captors._

_In that instant, the thing had turned and looked straight at him. Brilliant lights peered out of the darkness, taking him in, seeing his weaknesses and insecurities in a moment's breath. One of the men had cried out and Timmons had bolted._

_He had done his best to ignore the whispers after that._

_Even so, every now and then he found his feet leading him back toward that shop. He always caught himself before he could go in. Once his hand was already on the door knob when he snapped out of the trance the voices had ensnared him in. As he'd turned away, he'd been surprised to see a man walking up behind him, his arms filled with satchels of product-the shop keeper. The man had seemed equally surprised to see him there, but before he could ask what Timmons was doing, the boy had fled again._

_As he smiled at his mother and made up a pleasant day to tell her about, he wondered if that darkness could be used to save someone._

~"~

Timmons whistled as he trotted up to where he'd left his horse. Of course the damned thing was still there. He sighed and untangled its reins from the tree branches. Dismissing his voidwalker, Timmons swung up onto the dead steed's back and dug his heels into its rotting sides, urging it into a trot.

As he followed the road, he didn't even realize that he finally had his silence. There were no creatures, living or undead, to bother him, yet all he could think of was that little elf's gaunt face. When he'd gone to leave, she'd grabbed his hand and he'd felt the way hers shook. She was close to death herself.

He'd easily freed himself from her and told her that a dying troll, as she'd explained the creature to be, was not his problem. As he stepped back into the open, she'd hurried after him, grabbing his arm and asking him to help her kill the Scarlet Crusaders if he wouldn't help her move her friend. If they were gone, she could heal him without worry that she would be leaving the both of them defenseless. Timmons hadn't really followed her logic, but figured that as close as she was to death, she probably wasn't thinking rationally any longer.

He'd shook her off him again and warned her that he'd lead the damned crusaders to her cave if she didn't stop pestering him. She'd looked so lost as she released him and slipped quietly back into the cave to tend to her troll.

Timmons slumped his shoulders forward, hunching down even more than usual. He hadn't actually felt guilty about screwing another creature over since...he was a child, really. Not since his mother had died.

~"~

_"What am I going to do?" The chubby shopkeeper wailed as he looked over the dozens and dozens of lilies that had been scattered over the fresh grave. "I can't sell these now that they've been dirtied up and left out of water for so long..." He scowled at Timmons, who stood with his hands shackled between two guards, one eye swollen shut. They probably wouldn't have used such force if he hadn't kicked one of them in the face. "You're going to pay for every damn one of them!"_

_Timmons rolled his good eye and allowed himself a smirk as one of the guards had to release him to restrain the shopkeeper, who practically dove at him. Timmons spit in his face and then spun around and slammed his shoulder into the other guard. He barely made it three feet before the man recovered and tackled him to the ground. Timmons let out a sharp cry as he felt one of his wrists snap as his weight fell awkwardly over the cuffed limb._

_The shopkeeper was straightening his vest and stood taller, indignant as Timmons bit his lip to keep from crying. "I hope it hurts, you little prick."_

~"~

Timmons slipped through the gathering of forsaken until he came to the door they'd all crowded in front of. The dreadguard in front of the doorway glared at him, though he simply turned his body slightly, barely allowing Timmons enough room to slip past him and into the room. As the door closed behind him, he heard someone hiss, "Death to the living," and several voices shouted their agreement.

The little elf stood behind one of the forsaken priests, watching with that unreadable expression as the corpse tended to her troll's injuries. As Timmons eyed her, he noticed her fingers twitching every time the troll groaned, as though she wanted to step in and tell the healer to be more gentle.

Timmons stepped up beside her and eyed the troll as well. He was already looking much better. Well, still incredibly emaciated, but his fever seemed to have gone down. Timmons rummaged through his satchel and then pulled out a moldy loaf of bread and held it out to the little elf. It took him a moment to catch her attention, though she nodded thankfully to him as she took it, not seeming to even register that it was probably a bad idea to even consider eating it.

With a sigh, Timmons reminded himself first that it had been the best looking of what was left of the food and second that he didn't care if she liked it or not. Instead of even trying to taste any or break off part for herself, the little elf leaned over the healer's shoulder. "Do you think...he will be awake to eat soon?"

Her voice rasped like sandpaper grating over coarse wood and Timmons fished through his bag again to bring out a skin of water. He held it out to her as the healer turned a sightless gaze to glare at both of them. "I am doing what I can, but honestly? I doubt this thing will ever wake up. Do you realize how far gone he is?"

She stilled, and for a moment both forsaken thought she'd stopped breathing. A soft rasp escaped her throat however and she tightened her grip on the bread, crumbs falling away to the floor. "Haa'aji will wake up."

Timmons stared at her. He recognized the look in her eyes, the tone in her frail voice. It wasn't hope or longing that moved her to believe in her friend's recovery. It was as though she were lost at sea and he was the beacon on the shore, her life-line. She needed him because if he could survive, then maybe she could, too.

After all she'd been through, this emaciated troll was proof of something to her. A better future, maybe?

It had been ages since Timmons had believed in a better future. Even before the plague, his world had already been slipping into darkness. It was better that way, though. Hope bred disappointment, pain, and loneliness. At least in the darkness, everyone was equally lost.

~"~

_"What have we here?"_

_The man behind the desk didn't even look up from his book as Timmons was led into the room by two hooded creeps. They'd caught him trying to steal from their food stores. Well, that's what he'd told them he was doing._

_With his mother gone, stealing was all he could do to keep himself alive, though it had been the whispers that had called him back to the shop, not the prospect of a meal. Without a home to go to, he'd thought that perhaps he should just give into whatever drew him there. Maybe he'd find a reason not to just throw himself into the lake._

_The man's desk was covered with books and old parchment. Some of the ink glimmered as Timmons looked it over. He already knew that words had power. Bastard. Whore. They could hurt more than anything._

_But this...this was a different kind of power. Power to make a place for oneself in the world._

_Timmons snapped from his thoughts as he realized that the man was peering up from his book, inspecting him. An amused light danced in his eyes as he slowly lifted his head so that he could stare down his nose at the boy. "Enticing, isn't it?"_

_Even as one of the men gripping his shoulders scoffed at the thought of a boy hearing the call, Timmons shrugged. The other of his captors started to make a snide comment about him trying to play them, but he cut himself off as the man behind the desk gave him a bored glance. "I will speak to the boy in private."_

_The two men didn't even grumble as they left, though when Timmons had looked back at them, he'd seen the contempt in their eyes. It excited him that someone could hate him for something he had that they didn't. Even if it was a mere audience._

_When he turned his attention back to his host, the man's eyebrows were raised. "The two of them will be lucky if they can get their imps to follow an order." He offered Timmons a half smile. "But they're good minions, if nothing else. But you..." he let out a short laugh. "Let's just say that power recognizes power. I've been waiting for you since you showed up on my doorstep two months ago."_

_Had that only happened two months ago? It felt like thousands of lifetimes had passed since then._

_"What's your name, boy?"_

_"Timmons."_

_"Names are, in the end, words. Words have power, though...you already know that, don't you? I want your full name."_

_For a moment, a desperate fear of misbehaving in the back of Timmons mind commanded him to, in his shame, explain that as a bastard he had no real last name, but the fear abruptly dispersed as another realization struck him. There was no point in minding a man who lived what could have been a world away. Even if word did get back to him that a boy claiming his name lived in Lordaeron, what could he do about it?_

_"Timmons Burlaste."_

_"Well then, Mister Burlaste," the man seemed to catch the ill intent behind claiming the surname, but merely clasped his hands and leaned across his desk, a dark smile playing on his lips. "How would you like to be a warlock?"_

~"~

Timmons lay sprawled out in the middle of the cemetery. No one had risen in almost a month, so he figured it was as good a place as any to get some peace and quiet. And if someone did rise up, he could always just leave. After all, he wasn't in charge of easing people into undeath.

He didn't even hear her come over. One moment, he'd been staring up at the murky sky, wondering if the plague had somehow tainted the heavens themselves, the next he'd been looking into her dim blue eyes. She probably had to learn to be so quiet just to get as far as she had though the Plaguelands.

His eye twitched as he jerked up into a sitting position, tugging at his hood.

"You don't like people to see you?"

He gave her an annoyed glare, not that she could see it. "If you're the smartest of your species, it's no wonder they all died."

"You're cruel." Her voice was barely a whisper.

Timmons scoffed and flopped back down onto one side, his back to her.

"You're cruel, but..." her voice faded off for a moment. Even as he considered telling her to fuck off, he felt her thin, trembling hand on his shoulder. "Haa'aji is useful. You could..." she had to take in a few breaths. The way speaking wore her out, he had to wonder how she'd managed to walk all the way from town. "You could look at him as an investment. If you help him, he'll be useful to you."

"That's what he has you for."

"I can't stay."

Laughing harshly, Timmons imagined the little elf trying to leave the forsaken lands on her own. Even if she made it past the undead, the humans to the south would probably kill her just because of how deathly she looked. "What, are your accommodations not to your liking?"

At first he thought she must have left in her silent manner. However, a faint sniffle gave away her continued presence. He rolled over to look at her, but his snide comments scattered from his consciousness when he saw her. Tears streaked her dirty cheeks and her lip trembled as she stared down at her hands, resting limp on her knees.

"My master is coming for me." Her shoulders trembled. "Maybe...if I can get far enough away...he won't find this place...or Haa'aji." She brushed some of her hair from her face as she struggled to her feet. "Haa'aji still believes in happy endings. I don't think they're real, but... I'd like him to have one."

~"~

_He couldn't take it. The air was thick with green mist and despite wrapping a cloth around his face as he'd tried to run across the street, to make it back to his coven's hide away, he must have breathed some in. By the nether, it was like swallowing molten glass. His airways burned._

_Timmons wished dearly that he could stop breathing. If only he could hold his breath, but it felt like dozens of needles bouncing around in his lungs and it forced him to gasp for air. Fresh air, anything to clear this pain._

_The green mist seemed drawn toward his lips, and he cursed himself, stumbling against the wall. He didn't see the people dropping around him. It was eerily quiet, save for the sound of gagging and terrified sniffling. No one could breathe well enough to cry._

_The needle pricks multiplied over and over until it was a singular pain. There wasn't a part of his lungs spared and he was sure they had to be on fire. It made every breath harder to take in than the last._

_The pain seeped into the rest of his chest, wracking his heart. He clawed at his chest, wanting to stop the spread. With each panicked thump of his heart, the burning shot through his body in intervals. They reached his shoulders, his arms, his hands, his fingers, down through his legs to his toes. He had never been so aware of the entirety of his body as he was when each nerve ending screamed out._

_Thinking only to stop the spread of his agony, his clumsily unsheathed his dagger, thinking to carve out his traitorous heart. The needle like pain was filling his head, but he managed to drive the blade into his chest. It caught on one of his ribs, but he barely registered the injury. Everything else hurt so much that if he weren't able to see the blade protruding from his chest, he'd have sworn he'd somehow missed._

_Timmons tried to grip the dagger, pull it out and strike again, but his limbs wouldn't move the way he wanted them to anymore. As he looked down and forced himself to see through the dark haze creeping across his vision, he saw his knuckles turning gray and vaguely registered that the burning was from a lack of blood reaching them._

_It was in that moment that his heart had failed him and collapsed on itself._

_For a few terrifying seconds, he could see everything that had been his life, each moment in time frozen like paintings in a darkened gallery, illuminated by his dying conscience. Order fell away and mere fragments were left._

_Sitting in a man's lap, comparing hands and thinking that one day, he'd be just like him._

_A woman whose name he couldn't remember smiling as she took him in her arms._

_Standing in a room surrounded by flowers._

_Petals covered in dirt._

_Trembling hands, with no one to hold them._

_A lonely mound of dirt._

_And then..._

_Total and absolute darkness._

~"~

Timmons wasn't sure why he'd followed her. He hadn't intended to. It was just...for a moment, when he'd turned to walk back toward Brill, he'd thought he'd seen his mother. It hadn't been a ghost or an undead. It had just been a broken brain flashing a memory.

But for an instant, she'd been smiling at him, her hair falling softly around her shoulders as she brushed a few wrinkles out of her tunic. She'd looked up at him, her lips turned up at the corners, and held her arms out to him.

"You're a good boy..."

While he had no doubt that that had stopped being true years ago...maybe it had been a sign. Not that he believed in such things.

The little elf had made it less than half a mile from town before she'd collapsed. At first she'd just lay there and he'd thought that perhaps her fears of some master had been dying thoughts in a debilitated mind. He'd started forward, thinking to retrieve her body. Her troll would probably want to bury her.

However, he stopped as he felt the air grow colder. Hunching to the ground, he shifted toward a few bushes. A man strode through the woods, stopping in front of the little elf's body. His armor had skulls etched into the metal and Timmons easily recognized him to be a death knight.

The man's cold gaze swept over the little elf at his feet. Squatting down, he twisted his plated fingers into her hair and then jerked her head up. "Consider me impressed. I never thought you'd make it this far from home."

Timmons' frown dipped into a sneer. Normally, he was smart enough to run from death knights. He was a weaker creature than they, and he didn't want to return to servitude, if only because he wanted to know what he was destroying while he did it. But this man...

The knight snapped the little elf up and he heard brittle bones cracking. "Heal yourself." At first she didn't move, her arms hanging limp at her sides. When she didn't attempt to indicate she was still among the living, the knight murmured a few words too low for Timmons to hear.

In an instant, the little elf was screaming as death runes lit up all over her body, searing her skin and blinding her mind. As her body convulsed, the knight released her, allowing her chin to thud into the ground, snapping her teeth into her tongue.

What could have been an eternity passed, Timmons frozen, unable to register what it was that he was seeing.

The runes finally faded on the elf's body and the knight crossed his arms. "Heal yourself."

Soft, stifled sobs shook her body, but she made no move to comply with his order. The knight cracked his neck slowly. He ran his fingers down his nose, a deep gash in it that had healed poorly. As though it were a reminder of something shameful, his face abruptly contorted into rage and he made a quick motion with one of his hands, tracing a symbol in the air.

Runes along the little elf's left arm lit up and light wavered at her fingertips, healing over the worst of her injuries.

"Do you see?" The knight rolled her over with his foot. "You can't disobey me, so it's pointless. Just give in."

Timmons crept backwards, careful to avoid making any noise. He counted himself lucky that the death knight seemed too preoccupied teaching the little elf a lesson. Timmons didn't stop until he couldn't see the knight any longer. Staying low to the ground, he drew a summons circle into the ground and whispered a quick spell, hoping his voice wouldn't carry very far.

As his imp came into existence, he slapped his hand over its mouth before the little creature could complain about its contract.

"Listen very carefully," Timmons hissed into one of its long ears. "Go back to Brill and tell them that there is a death knight threatening the town. Bring them back here. Do not say a word until you get to a dreadguard. Do not make a noise." He frowned as the imp eyed him. He could read the look in the little creature's eyes. It wanted to know what he planned to do to make him. "You think I'm sick? This prick will make you his bitch in a second. You'll be begging him to give you back to me."

The imp didn't seem to buy it completely, but gave him a quick nod and darted off.

Timmons worried that the knight might see the imp's flames through the trees, but shook it off. He summoned an eye of Kilrogg and turned his attention back toward the little elf and her tormentor.

He couldn't save her. He knew that. But maybe he could throw a kink in the bastard's plans. Before the knight killed him.

Timmons directed his eye to go one way and quietly slunk through the trees in another direction. It wasn't like he was doing much useful with his second life, anyway. It wasn't like he'd ever been useful. Not really. So he'd helped rebuild Brill. If not him, someone else would have walked in his shoes.

But maybe...

~"~

_It had been easy enough to follow the whispers to his master. Timmons stood awkwardly in the catacombs of the Undercity, watching apathetically as corpses walked past him, some clinging to themselves or each other, as though seeking an anchor in this chaos. Others skittered by, hiding in the shadows as they glanced around with panic and fear and disgust at the others who had suffered the same fate._

_One woman sat near the wall, a broken mirror with spider fractures across it pointed toward her face. She kept whispering, "That's not me..."_

_Timmons tugged down on his hood. Anyone who noticed him would just assume that he was as ashamed of what he'd become as they were. It was as good a reason as any. He thanked the nether that he'd died in his cloak._

_He slipped past a man who was holding a corpse-a real, dead-dead one-and whispering that she needed to wake up, that she couldn't leave him to face this alone, and stopped as another hunched, rotting figure slipped into sight._

_The grand warlock of Lordaeron._

_The man was hooded as well, but as his gaze swept toward him, a crooked grin spread across his face. One of his cheeks was barely sinew and his jaw hung awkwardly to one side._

_"Mister Burlaste. I was beginning to think your first death had proved to be your demise."_

_With a harsh laugh that made several shaking corpses nearby jump, Timmons spread his arms. "I guess I had unfinished business."_

_The grand warlock walked over to him and clasped a hand on his shoulder, leading him through the catacombs and into the quieter recesses of their new home. "Well then, shall we get to work?"_

_"Work?"_

_"There's much to do if we want to help fortify this place for our Lady."_

_While Timmons couldn't say that he really felt indebted to Lady Sylvanas, he supposed that ingratiating himself to this new leader might give him the freedom to pursue his own interests soon enough._

_As they walked, Timmons found himself wanting to recoil from his master's touch. The grand warlock kept talking about plans for the future, about how dying hadn't really set back their coven's goals._

_Before then, Timmons had sort of considered the man to be on his level. A creature without a clear purpose, one merely drifting through the darkness, playing with it as it consumed him. But even this man, whom he had so respected in life, had dreams. Hopes._

_How he wasted his words._

_Part of him wanted to yell at the man, to tell him to come back to reality. But another part of him felt resentment. How was it that everyone else had a reason to live...being pretty, having a lover, having a goal, and he was left with nothing._

_He wanted something he could focus on. Something he could hold dear, but even as he mulled over the different aspects of his life, he couldn't find anything that he couldn't live without. Even his spells were dismissible in the end._

_Suddenly, he wanted to be alone, away from all the fools and their dreams and despairs._

_His master peered at him hopefully from under his hood, detailing plans for their coven, and Timmons smiled at him and nodded and the man continued on. Timmons thought it was ironic that his skills of lying in life would be just as reassuring to the fools around him in death._

~"~

The death knight inspected his blade as he stood over the little elf. Her eyes were blank and a gaping wound in her chest made Timmons curse himself. He'd taken too long and the little elf was dead.

However, just as he wondered if he could get away before the knight realized he had an audience, the runes flickered across the little elf's body and she took in a ragged gasp and began to shudder, dying all over again.

"Heal yourself."

The runes on her left arm lit up again and light washed over her.

Something inside Timmons snapped, or rather, came to life. For the first time, since he'd lost his mother-since before that even-he felt a connection. He'd been other creatures' playthings all his life. His father, even his mother had used him to an extent in the beginning, before they'd come to understand one another. And now...now he was just a puppet who took orders on command. He might control an imp or a void walker, but who controlled him? The grand warlock, the Dark Lady, the guards who wore down his patience until he took their orders just to be rid of them.

He would never be free the way he wanted to, but maybe she could. Maybe he could free her. He found his thoughts mirroring ones she had voiced to him, just hours earlier. He didn't believe in happily ever after, but he felt like he would give anything to let her have one.

The notion overtook him so suddenly, so powerfully, that he almost ran out from hiding to rush the knight looming over her.

He managed to catch himself, however, and assess the situation. The knight had been taunting her with her pain and her helplessness, mocking her stolen will. However, he seemed to grow bored of it quickly, for the little elf refused to even look at him, as though ignoring him might make him go away. No...it dawned on Timmons that she knew better. So then why? To frustrate her tormentor in the only way she could? To defy his cruelty, his dominance, with a simple void? Without a reaction to his torture, Timmons could see that the death knight was growing agitated.

How long had she suffered under his hand?

The knight lifted his blade and pointed it downward. However, instead of immediately striking, he paused, inspecting where it was he wished it to land. Timmons muttered a few quick words as he drew his dagger.

Before the knight could slam his weapon down again, Timmons' eye of kilrogg flew around him several times, disorienting him. The knight whirled around to see the eye had stopped to hover a few feet behind him, pupil wide as it stared him down.

The knight smirked as he sliced through the eye and then looked into the woods beyond where it had been. "I know you're there, warlock." He ignored the soft, pained gasp of the little elf behind him and muttered, "Heal yourself," as he took a step away from his victim. He could see something lurking in the woods, in the shadows.

Even as he tried to get a better view, an arrow flew past his face and he snarled as a death stalker faded in just behind him, slamming her dagger into his side. The knight easily flung the rogue away from him, though he cursed as another arrow grazed his neck and his black blood began to ooze out.

"Heal me."

He drew his symbol in the air as he dodged a dreadguard and flung the corpse into a tree. When nothing happened, he turned an incredulous glare toward his elf. He sucked in a sharp breath as he stared at the empty space on the ground.

Timmons heard the man's outraged cry as he stumbled through the trees, carrying the little elf on his back. It had been perfect timing on the reinforcements' part. If they'd been another few seconds later, the damned knight would have probably noticed him trying to take her away.

He kept running until he could barely hear the sounds of battle. After immolating a few zombies, he set the little elf against a tree trunk and knelt in front of her. "I want to help you."

She stared at him blankly. When he opened his mouth to repeat himself, she seemed to realize that her master was elsewhere and shook her head slowly. "You can't...no one can."

"Those runes...can you activate them?"

Timmons ran his fingers down his face, not even realizing that his hood had fallen back, revealing that his face looked far more intact than most any other forsaken. He'd been dead less than a day before he'd risen and his face still had his high brow and sloping nose. Only the tightness of his skin and glowing eyes took away from his human appearance.

He'd seen what happened to the undead who looked as well as he did. People were bitter. In their minds, he was closer to what they'd all once been than they were. Realistically, humans would reject him just as quickly as they did any other undead, but jealousy wasn't often logical. To avoid such conflicts, he'd made a point that no one ever saw.

Even as the little elf stared at him, taking in the contours of his face, his brow knitted together. "I think your runes have the same properties as a curse. If I can see them, I can help you get rid of them. I may not be able to do much, but I can get rid of the ones that he uses to force you to obey him."

Her shoulders shook, as though the thought of hope for being her own person again was too much for her to handle. She looked away from him.

"Help me help you," Timmons snapped, gripping her shoulders. "How can we activate the runes?"

"We can't," she whispered.

"Would you stop with the pitiful act?" Timmons hissed, though he stopped his verbal assault as her face grew grim.

"We can't, unless..."

~"~

Timmons stood near the road leaving Brill, arms crossed as the little elf walked up with Haa'aji. Each of them looked horribly thin, but at least the troll was walking on his own. He seemed more concerned with his elven companion and his eyes kept going to her left arm. It was bare, but blackened scars in the forms of the death runes that had plagued her ran from shoulder to wrist with a pinkish white scar running down the centers of them, leaving them useless.

The death knight had retreated after losing his pet when the full guard of Brill had come after him. That had been almost a week ago and, despite the magistrate's reassurance that they could handle a damned death knight, the little elf and her troll were insistent that they head further south, maybe even out of the plagued lands all together.

"Are you ready to go-" Timmons cut himself off and paused. "I never got your name."

"Liila Ting," she replied without missing a beat. When both Haa'aji and Timmons stared at her, she shifted her weight. She had a few bags tied to a ratty belt and small as they were, Timmons still couldn't help but wonder if he ought to ask to carry them for her. She glanced at her troll. "That's what you always call me. It's good enough."

"Liila maybe," Timmons muttered, his typical frown showing under the shadows of his hood. "But Ting is just..."

"Ah dunno," Haa'aji shrugged.

"What about Waterlily?" Timmons offered. "Liila Waterlily."

Before the little elf could respond, Haa'aji glanced over his shoulder and scowled. "Ya realleh gonna name somebodeh afta de first ting ya see when ya look around?" Even as Timmons tried to protest, Haa'aji gripped him by the head and pointed his gaze toward the lake in the distance. Sure enough, a few scraggly water lilies bobbed halfheartedly on the surface of the murky waters. As Timmons shook himself free, Haa'aji shook his head. "Nah, mon. She be needin' a name dat suits her, yeh? Sometin dat be resilient. Around foreva. Like de gods a de stars a de dragons a-"

"Dragonlily?" Timmons said. He slapped his hand across Haa'aji's mouth before he could protest and looked at the little elf. "Liila Dragonlily. What do you think?"

She shrugged. "I like it."

Even as Haa'aji frowned, a scratchy voice called out to their little elf and she trotted back toward town to meet the stable keeper. As the man spoke, the horse that Timmons' had originally brought Haa'aji into town on when he'd gone back to help them sauntered past the stable keeper to nibble on the little elf's hair. Though the stable keeper scolded the beast, the little elf merely reached out and patted its rotting head.

With a frown, Timmons turned his head to see that Haa'aji was leaning down, his tusks nearly close enough to skewer the warlock if he wasn't careful. Haa'aji reached out toward Timmons' hood and he batted the creature's hand away. "Leave me be."

"Ah know what ya did," the troll whispered. When Timmons merely frowned, Haa'aji lightly gripped his collar. "Dem runes. Dea be onleh two ways ta get dem ta show. Eitha her masta summon dem, a dey show when dey resurrect her. Ah know dat basta'd not been lettin' ya carve her up in fronta him. Ya killed her."

"I helped her," Timmons muttered.

"Whateva, mon," Haa'aji hissed.

The two paused and turned to see the little elf, perched on top of the decaying horse and holding the reigns of another. She leaned down to hold the second creature's reigns to Haa'aji. "Zachariah said that we could have them. To help with our travels." When both men stared at her blankly, she motioned with her other hand over her shoulder. "The stable keeper."

Haa'aji shrugged as he inspected the creature and then flashed a grin and thumbs up toward the man, who was still watching them with an unreadable expression. As he swung up on the creature, Timmons frowned. "What about me?"

The stable keeper held up a finger of his own before turning and walking back into Brill. Even as Timmons' frown deepened, Liila tapped his shoulder. "You can ride with me."

"Ah get him first!" Haa'aji cried out, wrapping his arm around Timmons' neck and kicking his horse into a run. As Timmons clawed at the creature's arm, his feet dragging against the rough road, Haa'aji leaned down to whisper, "Ya may be wit' us fa now, but ya just keep in mind dat Ah be watchin' ya. Ya not gonna be killin' her again. As far as Ah can see, ya be as much a monsta as her masta."

With an abrupt twist, Timmons managed to slip out of the troll's grip and thudded to the road, stumbling as he came to a stop. Even as Liila's horse sauntered lazily toward them, he tugged his hood down and gave Haa'aji a cruel grin. "That's fine. If it's for her, then I'll be a monster."


End file.
